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So today is Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Day in the United States and so I thought maybe I would post my ethics rubric from this semesters course.

In response to Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s letter from Birmingham Jail, I will share of few of my thoughts on the letter. In a time when racial injustice was commonplace in the United States, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. gives us an opportunity to see how a negative concept can be reformed into an ideal of positive growth and a catalyst for progress. The ideal for Dr. King’s proposal was not one to do with the bounds of some lesser law of the land. The ideal was much greater than that. It didn’t have as much to do about the differences between skin color or social standing or position. It had everything to do with a higher moral law. A law not of man, but of mankind. A law of humanity. This was the ideal that Dr. King Jr. was trying to convey. An ideal that superseded the fickle and wavering law of man. It is the law that preserves us all. The natural law. The law that every human being on this planet is born into this world in the same fashion; that every soul is born free. Dr. King Jr. speaks to those who would have his demonstration discontinued. He writes not because his words may be profound or because he feels he has something to gain by doing so. No, Dr. King Jr. writes this letter because it is necessary not only for the oppressed in his time but for the oppressed at all times. He writes this letter because in so doing he will invoke the reason and logic in the minds of those who cannot fight the urge to heed it. It is one thing for a man to hold on to ideas that may be in thought and word convincing, it is another to hold on to those ideals because the demonstration of them produces positive results in a tangible way. Dr. King Jr.’s letter is read today because of those ideals because those ideals yesterday and today still ring true. That mankind must listen to freedoms ring. That all those who strive to fulfill the American dream should know that it is rooted in freedom, dressed with the scars of the triumphant oppressed and honored with the stripes of the same red blood that flows through the veins of every human being on the planet. Justice is blind it sees no color, race, creed, sexuality or social status. Justice delivers its blow to the just and the unjust alike. There is no escaping its infallibility as it conducts its actions against the moral code. Dr. King Jr. spoke of how to obey an unjust law is a sin and to disobey an unjust law was our duty. To this ideal, I feel his letter gives us the magnitude of his words that should we be willing to uphold unjust laws for the sake of an “evil peace” than we are no better than those who condone the unjust law’s creation.

On a dusty run down corner in downtown Texarkana Arkansas, a man with a white suit, fedora and brief case, stands next to Tux’s barber shop speaking to a growing crowd of people.

“There are more ways than I can count to leave. Leaving is the easy part. Arriving, now that is an entirely different matter. Arriving is the work that comes with change. A profession that can sometimes be dramatic and time consuming. However, do not let me dissuade you from taking the leap to fly to a new place and time. While there is always work to be done when you change locations, there is a magic in the Arriving that cannot be overlooked.”

“Now, I am not talking about the magic in your local magic shop, or the magician that stands on stage and pulls the proverbial rabbit out of his hat. No, no, this magic my friends I tell you is real. It is tough to see. Hard to capture. Clever and elusive. But it is there, and if you follow the signs you will find it. Sometimes it’s a pair of pants, sometimes it’s a golden beetle, or a carpet, or a lamp. Sometimes it’s a book, or a pen, or a story.”

“When we embrace life’s open road we take flight and the winds of change fill our sails with new hopes, new dreams, and as I said before new magic. That’s right; a magic that is so spectacular it can make you famous. It can give you super human strength. I once knew a man who left his life of labor for the open road, and joined a circus. Within days of him leaving he was instantly transformed into the strongest man in the world. He could lift an entire elephant. Saw it with my own eyes.”

A younger man, with brown curly hair and green eyes, steps from the back of the crowd and asks above the din, “So how do I get this magic. I could use a pantry full of food!” The man laughs and the crowd joins him.

“Now, now, hold on there just a second. Remember that magic is not without its consequences. Magic requires things to be in balance. For every feat of amazing magic you do, you must also give something back to the world. If you don’t, the magic will have no choice but to take a small piece of your spirit, your soul, the thing that makes you, you. But, give to the world around you something to make it a better place, and you will be capable of doing fantastic things!”

A women with long curly blonde hair and fair skin, wearing a summer dress and sandals, holds a sun hat in her right hand and a luggage bag in the other. She slowly works her way to the front of the crowd and the salesman turns to her and winks. She stops, sets her bag down and asks him. “So how do you know what to look for? To see the magic, I mean?”

He looks down at her and says, “Well, you can learn all about it by in my book, Flight: The Companion of Change. It can be yours for just $1. All you need to know is right here.” He holds up a hand-sized red morocco bound book. Opening his brief case to reveal a set of the small red bound books. She can see each book has a symbol of a snake swallowing its tail stamped into the cover. He looks deep into her ocean blue eyes, holds the book out to her and says, “So whdha say, would you like to buy one?”

“You’re talking nonsense.” The curly haired man shouted as the crowd started to disperse. She looked up into the salesman’s eyes for a second longer and then looked down at the book. She opened up her bag and pulled out four quarters. As she placed the money in his hand she turned to look down the road toward the train station. California seemed so far away.

My clever fox. Her nine tails always twirling about. Mischievous in her creative gifts; giving them to me when I have little to no material of which to produce the tangible.

Stepping into the fresh evening air I look out over the damp and empty campus. Suddenly, seemingly from out of nowhere, a string of words whirlwinds around my mind. As the words in my mind join themselves into coherence, it occurs to me that I am being inspired. I look to the left and then to the right, when I swing my head back around and look forward, I jump back as that clever fox who,— no longer in fox-form, appears before me; a tall beautiful Asiatic women with long white hair and dazzling green eyes.

Her smile, a paradox, so mischievous but innocent all at the same time.

“Have I inspired you thoroughly?” She asks.

“I think so my Foxy friend, but as you can see I have no implements for which to record your clever inspiration. How am I now to bring to life the fruits of your blessing, may I ask? Will you inspire me further to that endeavor?” Her lips puff out in a pout.

“Are not my eyes inspiration enough?” She asks.

“They most certainly are my nine tailed beauty, but as you well know, beauty alone cannot ‘conjure up the stolen data tapes’, so… wait? Tapes. Record. Ah, I see what you did there. So clever.” I smile despite myself and pull my phone from my pocket and click the record app. From my clever fox’s string of words, to the digital audio of my voice, a story is born. As I look up to thank her for her assistance, she is gone; a whisper of laughter on the wind and the impression of nine, lingering on my lips.

These are usually how my conversations go with my muse Kits. She is there one minute and then gone the next. It is no surprise that she appears to me as a Nine Tailed Fox. Such a mythical creature has so many myths tied to it; one has to wonder what truth the myths are rooted in. A simple thought in that direction and wallah, the inspiration flows. It would not be proper for me to say my muse is infrequent in her visits, for that is not the case.

She is often there whispering to me about this idea and that. Sometimes her inspiration can be a bit overwhelming because well, no one with only two hands could put it all down in the rapidity that it is being delivered. I find all in all, I am very fortunate to have Kits. She inspires such wonderful, rich and, engaging worlds from which I seem to draw from on a daily basis. So as I believe she would say if she could, ‘Let your stories be clever, let them teach and entertain, and most of all, let the mischief of their weavings leave you wondering where to look next.’

What is creative writing and who asks this question? There are more ways to define creative writing than there are trees in the forests of the world. Each interpretation gives life to new understandings and new perspectives of its premise. This writer would define creative writing as a thoroughfare between the mind’s eye and the threads of imagination.

Each individual that writes creatively brings to fruition the labors of the imagination. What does it mean to create? The common definition of create is to bring something into existence. Each idea is a seed that gives breath to the body of our minds fabrications. We in turn are the vessel for bringing that body of work forth in the written word.

What do you suppose we create when we write a story? Is it the characters and the history of their failures and triumphs? Is it the prose that reads like the pouring of rain? No. This writer believes that creative writing has a much more profound definition. As creative writers we bring forth the human conditions greatest strengths and weaknesses. We draw out the creation song of life and display it for all to see. Some authors of philosophy would say we are what we feel, and that we feel make us human.

Emotion is the pathway to understanding. We create a language of emotion when we write. It is the song we sing to our soul when we are happy, sad, hopeful or desperate. Creative writing is a means to channel that emotion to create greatness in others. Our pens are the trees of the world and our ink the ocean. May the creative writers of the world bring forth the highway of human thought and bridge the gap between the fantastical and the real.

Ever watch a movie, read a book, watch a TV show and think,”I would have done something different there because that is so not what a person would really do or the delivery is not at all relatable”?

Well I was tired of doing that, so I decided to write my own story. A story where I am in control, and where my characters do things that real people would actually do, because I can relate to a character who is not sure they would jump for joy at having to save the world, if they had failed to save everyone else they cared about.

So I write the story that should have been written in the first place. I am a firm believer that adding joy to the world is better than adding the dressiness of reality. If I am writing fantastical fiction than it should not be a tragedy but a triumph something that inspires hope not the hopeless gut wrenching truth that is the human condition.

If I wanted to do that then I would write non-fiction. So if my writing delivery seems lackluster to a seasoned writer, but is eaten up by the readers then who is right in this situation? The veteran that doesn’t change with the times is destined to be left behind while the world around them changes.

Sorry for the rant. Just got a critique on my book, and the reader said that the book was not going to sell because I gave the reader everything they wanted and only one person died, and by doing that, it made it unrealistic. ITS A WORK OF !@%!@%$@# FICTION!! It’s suppose to be unrealistic.

I hear what the reader is saying. And while I can see his general viewpoint I refuse to write stories that pull at the emotions of the readers only to leave them empty and wondering. What good does writing do if it evokes the emotions of hate, disdain and regret.

Would anyone argue the point, that those kinds of stories do the world any good?

Did anyone see the Movie The Grey? What was the emotional roller-coaster for, to prove the writer could evoke your emotions and massage his ego? The movie left you empty with a hopeless outcome. My wife and the couple we were watching with felt the same way, are we not entitled to feel that way? We paid for the story, it just didn’t deliver for us.

Don’t get me wrong some tragedies serve their purpose in teaching a lesson, as in the story of Romeo and Juliet. But their is no reason, in my opinion, to bring to the world a story in which their is no more usefulness than to point out that the world sucks.

So to bring this all back full circle, the only critique really worth weighing is the one whose publishing your work, the reader who is reading it, and the customer who is buying it.

So recently, I decided to go back to school. I turn forty on the 26th, and well, that just seems a bit long in the tooth to be re-educating myself. But what do I know? Well I do know I love to write, but I am not sure if I am really good at it. So, I am going to reapply myself to the literary arts, and go back to school.

Anyway, I love to write. I didn’t know I loved to write, till I started playing role playing games. Role playing games gave me the liberty of creating a character that I could do with as I saw fit. He could be good, in the way Robin hood was good, and that was okay. He/she could be tall, or strong, or good with a bow an arrow. The atmosphere gave me an opportunity to express myself in ways I hadn’t been able to before. When asked how my character had come to be where his is now, I was introduced to the Back Story Concept. The Back Story Concept allows for an individual to create a story of their characters history, their triumphs, their struggles, their loss, their motivation. I thought this was awesome.

Now today,one 110K MS later, so many years have past since that first backstory. I find myself writing, not only about one character, but about many. I am creating a whole new world with different races and history. Writing just flows from me like a river, and so now I write for the love of writing. So here’s to those who created role playing games, and here’s to those who had the courage to play pretend out in the open where everyone could see, and here’s to the Role Players all over the world who found a place they could be themselves and feel safe.

May your stories live on in the hearts in minds of all of us who read them.

So I finally got my agent query proofed and vetted by someone who has already gotten requests from her own queries, (thank you so much Elise), and so that is amazing! I am so excited about getting to the next step in my writing journey. So what do I do I start looking for agents to query, and what do they ask for? All the agents I have found have pretty much the same submission process: Send a Synopsis and the first five pages of your MS.

What?! A Synopsis? Oh, and not just a regular synopsis, but one that reveals the ending. I mean that kills the book right? Do you really want to read the book? I mean I get it, they receive a lot of queries and they only want to read the ones that they think are interesting. However, there are all these rules and guidelines out there for a good novel Synopsis, yet none of them seem to apply to me. I am sure they do, but it doesn’t feel that way right now.

A flash of light burns around the edges of Stan’s peripheral as he runs toward the nights black lit emptiness. Don’t look back, don’t look back he tells himself, but the overwhelming feeling of anticipation and regret, strangle the reason from him, and he turns. Stan sees a large being floating in the air with a sword glowing as bright as the sun itself; winged and blazing, he looks upon the last sight his eyes will behold as he turns to a pillar of salt.

The trees swayed as the sage stepped from the cover they gave. He looked at the fire demon bearing down on him. An acrid smell of death and decay filled the air as the demons burning sulfurous body hung in the air waiting for the Sage to approach.

“You can never quench the fire that burns in me foolish mortal. I burn for the sake of burning.”

“Your fire is not the only fire there is, you foul creature. I shall send you back to where you came from.”

The demons roared flinging a barrage of fire-balls, one after the other at the Sage. The sage drops to one knee trying with all his might to hold back the demons rage that burns ever hotter. But there is nothing he can do to stop it.The sage is now on hands and knees smoke covering the sage head to toe. The raging demon becomes molten and the Sage ignites. A burning blaze engulfs him.

The sage goes still head bowed, his clothes a roaring inferno. Then the demon above him laughs and throws another blazing fire ball at him for good measure. The demons laughter soon subsides in confusion as the sound of a deep rumbling laughter emotes from the Sages burning countenance.

The demon above the Sage growls in frustration and hurls fire ball after fire ball at the sage. Then the sage stands up, throws his head back and bellows in laughter. His eyes turn red, then black as two large ram horns grow from the top of the Sages head.

The demon above looks down in confusion, then in apprehension as the Sage float up into the air to face the demon.

“You foolish little demon, your fire may burn for the sake of burning, but my fire burns fire.” The Sages inner demon began to burn bright orange, then red, then white, then finally settled on blue.

The Sages inner demon began to burn bright orange, then red, then white, then finally settled on blue.

The other demons face went from apprehension to all out terror at the sight of the cold fire now burning brightly in and around the demon-sage that floated in front of him. The demon-sage lifted his elongated hand and twirled his fingers in a spidery rhythm, a ball of blue fire gathered there. The other demon turned and created a gateway of fire to escape, but he was not quite fast enough and as his body passed through the gate it disintegrated in a plume of blue flames.

The demon-sage smiled and floated to the ground, satisfied with what he had done. Then he felt a presence behind him, he turned curious, as he did so the small human hand of his apprentice shoved a twelve pointed talisman through his demon chest and shouted.

“Be gone demon. I banish you back to the hell you came from.” The demon-saged looked at his young apprentice, his eyes showing the truth of it all, and turning to ash and cinder as essence was carried away on the wind.

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My brother Jonathan has been in the ICU for more than a month now. When he came in he had pneumonia. After he had been there three days he had multiple strokes. The doctors said that he would not survive and that we had to prepare for the worst. But I knew my brothers resilience, I knew that they didn’t, I knew that he would survive.

So my brother fought death. Jon’s a lion. He looked death in the eye and roared. Next to him, standing with a sword and shield, was the Knight our families love, a bright light illuminating from him. He stood before death, sword in the air, shield raised high, defiantly prepared.

Death looked upon the Lion and the Knight and there in the depths of the knights eyes he saw mine, and he knew while I yet drew breath he would not have my brother.

Now, more than a month later, my brother is sitting up in his hospital bed, eating solid foods, and he can move pretty much ninety percent of his body. He has a long road to recovery ahead of him, but the road is there.

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